iUpgraded

rossnation... coming to you live from a brand new iPhone 4. Forget about any new features of this bad boy. This baby's got an Evinrude!

rossnation... out.

RNWN

Overheard*

"Don't try to out-nerd me. I was a drum major for two years. I went to drum major camp!"

The updated version? "Don't try to out-nerd me. I'm parked in front of AT&T on a Monday night to buy a new iPhone at 7 A.M.! I'm the first one in line."

*By overheard, I mean that I typed those words. Don't worry about it.

Bitter Taste Be Gone

For every reaction, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Some of you may be familiar with this, the ninth law of planetary motion.* Turns out this is just as true when talking about sports as with physics. A day of sport as the best we have to offer (think waffles) is IMMEDIATELY followed by a day of sport as filth (tofu). And that’s how it has to be.

One day after Landon and the Ace Makers gave us a sports high for the ages, I was harshly reminded that man is ultimately sinful, and rarely at his best. Sadly I was reminded of this when I read the recap of a baseball game. My beloved Texas Rangers, whom I have been enamored with as long as I have been able to hold a baseball, had their 10-game winning streak cracked by the Houston Astros, losing 7 to 4 at home. This is hard for me in many ways, not least of which being that a winning streak for the Rangers has always seemed to max out at about 3 games. The Rangers have a .608 winning percentage right now; for those who don’t care, that’s like being a waitress and getting tipped 40 percent on every check. It just doesn’t happen. So right now being a Rangers fan is a pretty sweet gig, even though technically the team is being run by Major League Baseball, just like the old Expos (I’m gonna name my first kid Expo, regardless of sex.)

But the losses I can handle. I have been vaccinated against it. I’m a Vandal, after all. What I have a harder time stomaching is what the Rangers, and the fans in attendance, did in the process of getting worked over. After 2^nd baseman Ian Kinsler struck out looking in the third inning, he was ejected after showing his frustration with the call by home plate umpire Eric Cooper. It may have been a marginal call, and Kinsler might not have deserved to be thrown out of the game. Umpiring is about the most subjective occupation on the planet, right after being a columnist. But baseball’s great tradition is that no matter what, the umpire is right, has to be, or the game falls apart. And I agree with this wholeheartedly, ever since I spent summers in high school working little league games in Idaho Falls, which is a great job if you like getting yelled at by angry parents for 15 bucks a night (and I do).

Regardless, players strike out, they get thrown out of games. Deal with it Ian. But the fans were what really got my ire up, when in the 9^th inning, they cheered after Cooper the Ump was hit in the face by an errant fastball. An accident, a miscommunication between pitcher and catcher, sent the ball into his facemask at close to 100 miles an hour, and while Cooper was kneeling on the ground trying to regain his composure, the fans in Texas cheered. If Lando and the Ace Makers is the chocolate, this is the pretzel underneath (because chocolate covered pretzels are gross.) Applauding a hurt man, who is not even competing, is the worst kind of ugly, made worse because everything’s bigger in Texas. And for me it almost counteracted the elation of Landon’s goal. For a moment, I wished I wasn’t a Rangers fan.

I hope today’s win was the start of a new streak. I hope that Landon Donovan isn’t old and broken down when the 2014 World Cup rolls around, and he can captain one more team. I hope that team figures out how to avoid allowing goals in the first ten minutes. I hope Ghana quits stalling and flopping. I hope the Cowboys win the NFC East. I hope Boise State loses early and often. But when it comes to sport, I hope most of all for more chocolate than pretzel.

rossnation...out

* joke

This One's for Matt, and Lando.

A couple of amazing things happened yesterday, both in a world that I am in love with, and yet completely unsuited for. And it is not Narnia; that is a column for another time. Neither is it the magical and delicious world of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - the original, not the frightening and depressing remake - which I found so fascinating and cavity-inducing as a child. Still, on any given watch I do not know whether I am petrified or delighted by Gene Wilder's crazy portrayal. This world is a safe haven, a place to forget one's hurt and anger, to be free for two to four hours. It's the world of sport, and yesterday, the world of sport got an infusion of beauty akin to a chemical peel for an aging woman (or supremely vain man, suppose.)

It's rare on any day to see an epic sporting moment, and two in a day is like having twins. (Writer's license, I don't know this firsthand.) Landon Donovan's game winning goal in injury time against Algeria was the minutes-older child, followed by the younger twin (John Isner v. Nicolas Mahut) who doesn't want to be born, and therefore takes 5 sets, 11 hours, and over 200 aces to finish. Don't be fooled; no one would ever accuse me of being a soccer or tennis fan. I have passing understanding of the rules, coupled with great respect for the athletic prowess of those who seek to perfect the games, but I can't be passionate about them...unless June 23 happens.

I was working during USA/Algeria, installing TV and Internet, and ironically was unable to see a single moment of the game. It was on ESPN AND ESPN3.com, but never when I plugged in one of many TVs or computers. I was following on my iPhone. (Sadly, iPhone might be my Narnia. Callback!) And I had given up hope, just like so many others. All I saw was one update after another about a US player missing wide or being denied by the goalpost, and even I as a VERY casual soccer watcher know that goals are hard to come by in the waning minutes of a match. And then like lightning, my phone refreshed and displayed one word, the battle cry of every sports nut in the world: GOAL!

For ninety one minutes the men of US Soccer - almost all of whom are younger than I - threw everything they had at the men of Algeria, and they were denied. Punch for punch, shiner for shiner, and I LOVE that! Even I can get behind soccer when it's played with that kind of urgency and abandon. Plus, soccer is finally watchable because of hi-def. Our guys needed a goal, and they fought tooth and toe to get it. Sadly, if My Boy Lando hadn't been there for the easy rebound with 3 minutes left in the match, the rules of soccer would've made us go home with a draw. Can you imagine?! You don't get to play anymore, cause you tied. You didn't lose, but you still lose. Huh?

But Lando didn't miss, and thank heavens! Missing from there would have put him in the top 3 all-time goats, along with Bill Buckner and Billy. And so now we know the precise difference between failure and triumph: 8 yards.

It's almost a shame that the brawl that was Isner versus Mahut had to happen on the same day. Sure, technically the match ended today, but the real magic happened in the first 5 hours of the fifth set. How ridiculous is that sentence, on a scale of 1 to nutball? I'm exhausted from all this typing, and these guys went at it for FIVE HOURS, after they had gone at it for five hours! Even the guys at Nike were shaking their heads, saying things like, "Those shoes should be broken in by now," and "It's gonna cost us a fortune to get these guys to wear our shoes now. Good thing we gots the dollah's. Hollah!" That's how the people at Nike talk.

Towards the end, they were so tired they barely even tried to return serve. Anything less than a sure thing wasn't worth the energy. It's hard to fathom that kind of commitment, and that I why I love sports. In the end, they were too tired to celebrate a win or mourn a loss. They had pushed to the brink and finished.

Why do I love sports? Because even though I don't really get soccer, or love tennis, I see the practitioners do something great, like Lando and the Ace Makers, and it gives me hope. Hope that at some point I will be pushed to the edge, and I will push back. And even if I can't win, I'll make sure that I'm so exhausted from the fight that when I get laid down, I'll be so tired that I won't care. That's how the righteous sleep.

In Search of the American Dream

Nothing I love more than a misleading title. I'll bet you thought this was going to be a monumental essay on the American experience, because that's what you've come to expect from the New Yorker and this column. (See how I called it a column instead of a blog? I'm allowed to lend myself credibility, right?)

That's not what this is about, however. This is about my American Dream, and it's very simple. It's the search for the perfect non sequitur. I'm a huge fan. If I were a girl, the non sequitur would be my Jonas Brothers. I think. I don't really understand girls. Jake, back me up on this one.

See, that last line? Probably two people in the world got that. It's perfect. Well, not quite, cause even those two realize it's not funny. But you get the idea. It's comedic palladium for those of us who either don't think about what we're saying or aren't funny. And I'm a little bit of both. It's the only reason I can get away with making a "joke" about the periodic table.

The rossnation Dream is the guy who gets to write for 30 Rock, with which I am quickly falling in love. About twice an episode these guys insert a PA voice over like, "Jenna, Ghost Face Killah, and Yo Yo Ma to the stage for 'Muffin Top.'" Or, "Tracy to the stage, please, for 'Pull Your Own Wisdom Teeth.'" The greatest job ever. Making up nonsense for money. That's the Dream. There's probably other elements to it, but we haven't quite hammered this theory out. (I...the Royal We, the editorial...)

And that's why I'm doing this on a Saturday night. In a way, I'm perfecting the American Dream, if you think about it. Never mind, let me worry about it. This is a job for a columnist. Or me. I'll let you know when I get it right...if you know what I mean.

rossnation...out.

I'm On The Fence About Twitter

So follow rossnation... on twitter! Don't be fooled by imitation rossnations, there can be only one!

@irossnation

rossnation...out

Who's My Doppelganger

Really interesting discovery tonight: my alter ego character on Lost is Jack. I know, right? I thought it would definitely be Hurley, or Charlie, because of the obvious physical and vocal similarities. But it turns out that Jack and I kindred spirits, in addition to both being inconceivably handsome, well read, and grizzled. We have way too much in common for my comfort.

Number one, he's a doctor. I took some premed courses.
Number B, he's addicted to Oxycontin. I took one once and didn't wake up for nearly a day.
Letter 3, Jack is a natural leader. I am Au natural.
Quatro, Jack has saved lives. I have saved movie ticket stubs.
Cinco, Jack has his pick of the women on the island. Ummmm....never mind.
6, Jack is awesome. I am also OK.
7, Jack is tall, fit, and strong jawed. I am none of those things, but I can spell them.
8, Jack is broken. We are all broken.

So heretofore, Jack Shepherd is inducted into the Royal Order of rossnation..., and shall be referred to henceforth as Sir Jack of rossnation..., and shall be entitled to all rights and privileges given to members.

All those interested in becoming a Knight of the Royal Order of rossnation... (formerly known as the Rad Dood Gang) should submit their qualifications, along with a non-refundable application fee, consideration to be given to those who can make a reasonable claim to the honor. I HAVE SPOKEN!

rossnation... out

RNWN

I know it's tempting, but you don't REALLY want a rossnation... tattoo. That's just the syrup talking.

I Am The Walrus

I present to you, my adoring and misguided fans, my favourite song lyrics, in no particular order. (Yep, spelled it the British way. That's how I do's it.)

• I felt like this on my way home, I'm not scared. I pass the boats and the Kingdome! I'm not scared! New Way Home; Foo Fighters Can it get better than a reference to a bygone ballpark? I submit that it cannot!
• Oh, I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands the ones I love. Just Breathe; Pearl Jam Is it just me, or are these guys getting better with age? Extreme age.
• In a clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders, of every glove that laid him down or cut him til he cried out, in his anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains. The Boxer; Simon & Garfunkel First off, this song has the greatest drumbeat in the history of drumbeats. And second, I love me some Simon. Garfunkel I could do without, but I think that's pretty much how it's gone for that guy.
• Or my name's not Kroc, that's Kroc with a 'k'. Like crocodile but not spelt that way. Boom, Like that; Mark Knopfler Dude wrote a song about McDonalds. Genius, with a capital K.
• Hey, Dad, what do you think about your son now? Oh, hey, Dad, what do you think about your son now? Take a Picture; Filter I love this, cause the guy doesn't even try to make it subtle. This lyric comes out of nowhere, doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the song, and he just SCREAMS it! This guy has some father issues (don't worry, Pops, we're good. smiley emoticon.)
• I'm pushin' an elephant up the stairs, I'm tossin' out punchlines that were never there. Over my shoulder a piano falls, crashing to the ground. The Great Beyond; REM Wait...what? It's like Michael Stipe was writing a rossnation-style blog and made it into a song. I'm gonna be rich; just gotta learn how to write music and dance spastically.

That's a good start. Feel free to submit your favorite lyrics, and I'll try to make clever comments about them. But it'll probably just be sad. Single tear...

rossnation...out

P.S. Single Tear, name of my second album. Haven't named the first one yet.

Point-Counterpoint

This is a direct rebuttal of falsitudes promulgated by one Jacob Alger, a man I respect and admire, but who has completely lost his faculties. (Perhaps they're on strike.) Mr. Alger, while making many salient points in his most recent post,



http://fatherbest.blogspot.com/2010/06/every-sport-has-its-thorn.html





also opted to make a bold and ridiculous statement about the greatest sport on skates. OK, fine, hockey is the only sport on skates. And don't run at me with stuff like, "What about figure skating or ice dancing?!", cause I'll not honor that with a response. And thus, ice hockey holds its own category, like a car that has no class to be compared with. Ice hockey is the greatest sport in the New World, and herein are outlined the indisputable reasons. Take notes, Mr. Alger, and begin preparing your retraction.

• I grew up in Alaska (sort of) and I should know how to skate. But I do not. And I wish I could, because I wanted to be the kind of athlete that can do what Nicklas Lidstrom does, even at 40 years old. He can move on two razor sharp blades and a sheet of frozen water with more grace and precision than I can on two feet. Just watching him skate causes me to fall down sometimes. By the way, this is why I don't hate The Cutting Edge. D.B. Sweeney's finest work. Anybody think that LeBron could do this?



• With the advent of hi-def, we can put to bed the argument that hockey is hard to watch on TV because you can't see the puck, etc. HD has turned tv hockey into Lady GaGa on ice, a glittering extravaganza of hip checks and icing calls. And because of the speed of the game, the aggression of the players, and the shine of the ice, hockey is more fun to watch on TV than any other sport. And it's not bad to watch in person either.



• Hockey is the ultimate gentleman's sport. These men beat the snot out of each other for 60 minutes, and then they line up and shake hands. Unreal.


• Coolest thing I ever saw on TV: Chris Osgood and Patrick Roy squaring off at center ice in the '98 playoffs. Osgood was much smaller and still took Roy down after delivering numerous solid shots. I've never heard a crowd that raucous. And I'll bet they still shook hands.


• Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the tension of a playoff hockey game in overtime! Sudden death indeed! No coin flips here.


• At Red Wings games, they throw octopi onto the ice when the Wings score. You can't tell me that's not the greatest tradition ever.


• And finally, there's always a better than average chance that the person who sings the Star Spangled Banner might fall down.

Beat that with a hockey stick, Jake. Now take it back.

Don't Really Know Where This Came From

For sadness ever takes shape like this,

All jagged edges and broken,

A diamond swallowed unwilling and

Cutting the stomach with no precision.

It slices at the softest parts,

Knows the pieces that will bleed,

And the nerves that wake easiest.

Soon the ulcer becomes cancerous,

Growing slowly because you don’t know.

Doctor’s all say the same,

It is just heartbreak,

And will pass with time.

But time heals only the superficial,

And steals away with the thought of true cure.

Tumor advances, wrapping around the soul,

And squeezing so the anger begins to ooze out,

Moving ever closer to the surface,

Waiting for a breath of air to suck in and use for voice.

But what will it scream, what will anger speak to the world?

It has waited too long, it is septic, and now it will utter,

Whatever the sadness of the heart bids.

The Sadness speaks to the Anger, and says this or that,

These are the words you will utter.

And the Anger knows to wait longer still,

Running his lines to master them, set to deliver

A great oration of razor sharp pain.

Angers masterpiece will send pain throughout the amazed audience,

Nessun Dorma writ of hurt and insult, darker but no less beautiful.

And then Anger sins, and sings his opus of ugliness,

Piercing all around with his hate.

Some ingest it, and are infected, while some run.

And the others will stop Him, but it is too late.

The One anger intended to hurt, she is destroyed,

And will never repent or forgive now.

The wreckage has been laid out, and now sadness starts new

In another.

But if instead sadness would scream to the Heavens,

Screech at the Lord Almighty to offer counsel,

Perhaps HE would answer with wisdom.

Would Wisdom tell sadness the proper action…

Sadness in turn might fade to something less, and be removed entire.

Letterman's Been Lazy

This one's for you, Jake.

I present the Top Ten Top Ten's that I want to see:

10) Top Ten Lost Moments That Don't Make Sense

The sheer volume to choose from is what intrigues me. 4 seasons left and I can probably name fifty.

9) Top Ten Bald Actors

If Telly Savalas isn't number one, I'll be very disappointed.

8) Top Ten Ugliest Athletes Ever

Plenty to choose from, but Popeye Jones is a solid candidate, and just because I can, Ian Johnson's on there. I hate that guy.

7) Top Ten Fish

Shrug -- I like fish.

6) Top Ten Waffle Toppings

You're all hungry now, aren't you? Well, both of you anyway. But I'm casting my vote for syrup. But not lite syrup. Side note, why is it always spelled that way when referencing food? Mispelling is not OK.

5) Top Ten Axe Scents

No, there is nothing random about this list. This is legitimate. Has anyone noticed that there's like 35 different scents?! I'm not a "Double-pits-to-chesty" guy, but this has gone too far.

4) Top Ten Boat Movies

This is just to see if you can think of another one besides Captain Ron...or at least one that matters.

3) Top Ten TV Shows That Aren't Perfect Strangers

After all, what's the point?

2) Top Ten Worst Emoticons

They're all stupid. Get it?

And the coop Dee grass, as Grandpa would say,

1) Top Ten Deadly Sins

rossnation out. (yes, rossnation is now one word, all lower case.)

Panic! @ the Disco?

There is that singular moment we experience -- rarely if we are blessed -- that is like a lightning bolt striking in the heart. It is that split second right before the car changes lanes into you, the blip right after you miss a step, when from nowhere your heart races to the edge of insanity. You can't believe that it isn't coming apart inside of you. For me, it is the most horrendous feeling, because it speaks of danger, and worse, the kind of danger that cannot be contained. It is a whisper that wakes the dead.

This is what happens to me when I slowly open my eyes for no discernible reason, roll to the side, look at my phone, and realize that I am supposed to be at work in 2 minutes. This is what happened today. 7:58. NO! My alarm didn't go off, because I had left it on vibrate. The panic that came over me sent thoughts of all crazy kinds through my head. You'll be fired. Don't be ridiculous, you'll just get written up. Stop, it's never happened before, they'll tell you to be more careful. As my heart rate slows, my thoughts return to earth. I call, explain the problem, tell them I'm on the way. The adrenaline breaks, and I can feel my chest again, and I know that everything is OK, and I don't have to worry about my heart exploding...

And then I dropped my iPhone in the toilet.

RNWN

I want to write a screenplay about a man who becomes disenchanted with the world and the way that technology has taken over his life, so he decides to follow in Thoreau's footsteps and go live at Walden Pond...and blog about it.

Lost...and Loving It!

I knew this would happen. It was meant to be. Like Ken Griffey, Jr. returning to the Mariners for one final nap. Or the Cowboys imploding in the playoffs. Or waffles and peanut butter. And because I knew that it was inevitable, I avoided it for as long as I could, trying to pretend that I had some control over my life. "I won't let it happen to me," I said. "I am the master of my destiny."

But deep down, I knew better. So I made a compromise; I decided that I wouldn't watch a single second of Lost until the series was over, and then I would watch the pilot and see what happened. Deep in my bones I knew that Lost would be an addiction akin to Dr. Pepper for me, and it had to be on my terms.

And I was right, and it worked.

One week after the series finale of Lost I got season 1, disc 1 from Netflix. That was May 31st. It's been less than a week, and I can't stop. I've watched 30 episodes in 6 days. I'm going to bed way too late. I'm drinking too much caffeine. I'm tired. But this isn't over until It's over. (That's what she said.) Non sequitur alert.

And so here's some bullet point (shoutout) quickies so far, from a newborn perspective...and in no particular order.

• I'm in love with Maggie Grace. Let's just get that out of the way. I was quite disappointed by her untimely demise on the show. I also hope she has a great personality. If wishes were dreams and so on...
• There's an awful lot of subtitles to read, which I think they did on purpose so you'd have to pay attention. But it takes it out of me.
• This island is massive.
• I really disagree with the casting of Michelle Rodriguez...in anything.
• I realize that the writers must have been under the gun to figure out where to take the storyline, but it seems extraordinarily haphazard to me. And somehow I don't care. Why?
• Talk about typecasting, what's up with Sayid? I'm pretty sure he's Indian.
• Hurley is awesome.
• Kate apparently has superhuman strength, and can beat the crap out of any guy. She must have broken the FBI agent's jaw 6 times by now.
• Think it's coincidence that the ugly people don't really get their own story lines? And don't say, "What about Hurley?"! Do not.
• This is why the iPhone was invented, to prevent anarchy like on this show.

Anyway, let's hope this all wraps up nice and tidy, 'cause when I'm finished with this marathon I'm betting I'm gonna need to let my noggin rest. I just hope that this crazy obsession isn't what's fueling my recent creativity. I'd hate to be boring again...

Postcard from the Edge

Steve Jobs is delivering his keynote address at the Worldwide Developer's Conference at 10 A.M. tomorrow. And I'm gonna watch. Because I want to see the new iPhone. And then I want him to tell me when I can buy one. And then I'm gonna buy one. Cause I'm a nerd.

Ross Nation out.

Postcard from the Edge

Disappointment today, because some other loser already owns rossnation.com. Poop.

So Much to Say

We'll start this off slow with an update on the Great Shower Curtain Liner Saga of 2010: anticlimax, because it appears to have been resolved. The new $10 liner seems to be everything it was marketed as; a heavy piece of plastic (and supposedly mildew resistant). My shower today was free of the annoying flutter of the old, inferior liner flapping up against my leg. Now I don't have to aim the showerhead at the curtain to keep it at bay. Sweet, sweet relief.

On to heavier issues. Jake the Snake Alger has posed a query with potential for all kinds of fantastic (read, mediocre) comedy. The question is what TV shows and movies qualify for us personally as comfort watching; something that you can put on in the background and just let it be noise. Being the thinker that I am, however, I also must define the other types of film and TV. There's the kind that if I'm watching, I get sucked in automatically, and any chance at completing other tasks is a retarded folly. Case in point, Arrested Development. As soon as I here Gob say something stupid, I'll watch a whole season before I realize my pie is burning in the oven. (Yes, I bake pies.)

Then there's the movie or show that I have to watch all the way through because if I don't, I have no idea what's going on. The Index Case for this type is my new addiction, Lost. I haven't done anything productive in over a week now, and it's getting to be an issue. I have to force myself to stop the netflix and wash my sheets (today) or change the shower curtain (today) or clean the kitchen (well, later.)

But the perfect comfort media for me is a special breed, like a bassett hound or Phil Roland. When I've got things to do, like cleaning the apartment, folding laundry, making my bed, baking a pie, pilates, etc., my background picture and sound looks something like this:

1) Sadly, National Treasure. I've seen this abomination so many times that I no longer even care if the good guys win. Perfect for going to sleep.

2) The Hunt for Red October. Every line by rote, if you like (although most people don't like.) Only pause necessary is for the obligatory aping of Alec Baldwin as he says in a Sean Connery voice, "Ryan, some things in here don't react well to bullets. Yeah, like me. I don't react well to bullets." Freekin' brilliant.

3) Any Law and Order. They all end the same, but I love them anyway.

4) Sportscenter is a special category, because I have to watch the first run of the day, but after they've shown the same show six times, you're a world-beater with this white noise in the background.

5) If you've got no money, Home Shopping Network is perfect because you can't actually stop what you're doing to buy something.

6) The West Wing: What can I say, I've got a man crush on Rob Lowe, you wanna fight about it?

Movies and shows that are definitely not an option: The Shawshank Redemption, Marley & Me, Mad Men. These suck me right in and I'm useless until it's over. I'm useless other times too, though.

By the way, I'm having this problem right now. This is fifteen minutes worth writing that has taken forty five because I'm watching Lost, when I should have know better and put on Sportscenter. So what have we learned today? That Jake Alger shall now be call Socrates Johnson.

CALLBACK! Send it.

Ross Nation out.

Random Musings

First, I can't ignore the elephant in my apartment anymore, cause he's trashing the place. It's too damn hot for elephants to just be roamin' around. They should be at the zoo. This elephant's name is Splice, a disturbingly great movie in so many ways.

First of all, yeah, I went and saw Splice on opening night. I request forgiveness for this, seeing as how it was a in the company of a fine lady who also thoroughly enjoyed the film. But I also don't feel I need to offer excuses, cause I'm a grown-ass man (Giuseppi) and am entitled to see whatever flims I choose, regardless of what Roger Ebert thinks. I'm just assuming that Ebert didn't care for it; this flim is not exactly Shawshank.

And as much as I expected to walk into this movie and see a 90 minute glowing turd straight out of the Hollywood turd machine (I think this is located next to the Backdraft ride at Universal), that is exactly what I saw. But it had so many redeeming qualities that I have to say I loved it. First off, classy is right out the window. Can't assign that term to a movie in which both the male and female leads have sex with a half animal/half human splice being, after it transforms from a female to a male. (Honestly, I don't know how this script got approved, or got an Oscar winner to sign on.)

Second, the CGI splicething, Dren, is horribly done. She always looks like a person in a cgi costume, which is a weird effect, and unsettling. That said, it still seems to be the perfect effect for this movie; juuuussssttt a little bit off.

Third, the entire experiment that leads to the end disaster takes place over approximately 3 days, or so it seems, and the whole time the rest of the lab team apparently has no idea that the two leads are creating a supermonster in the other room.

Fourth, the two hero scientists, the brightest of their generation, drive what I believe is a late 70's Dodge Colt. Wait, what?

And last, the sequel(s) are coming, bet the family jewels on it. Or something else valuable. This is the safest investment since LeBron. Meaning, it'll make you money, you just won't win any awards.

My favorite possible titles for the sequels:
1)Splice Twice
2)Splice 2: Spawn of Dren
3)Splice Thrice
4)Splice of Pie
5)I'd be happy to hear more from our readers.

All told, I will watch this movie again, if for no other reason than to see the moment when the "heroine" runs headlong into a treebranch and knocks herself cold, at which point I let out a hearty guffaw that rings through the theatre. Great moment.

May the Splice be with you.

Genetics Are a Funny Thing...but Not Haha Funny

I don't place a lot of stock in the importance of looks; that would be foolish for a man of dubious physical stature. But there's one thing that I'm proud of when it comes to this sweet piece of man candy (mandy): I'm not balding.

Small victory, you may say, but this is no small thing when you consider the genetic hand I was dealt. Grandpa Bob, mom's dad, the supposed source of all things hair related, is about as shiny-headed as Telly Savalis (awesome), so the chances of me being bald was solid right out of the gate. But I'm 30 years old now, and while this hair is thinning, it is also holding its ground along the forehead. And anyone who was at my brother's wedding last weekend can see that he has not been as lucky; his hairline is receding quicker than a Cancun sunset. (That was a shoutout, I'm aware it was a lame analogy.) But this just goes to prove the old adage: "Dancers are really attracted to bald men." Well, this adage is not that old...

Until recently, the fact that the Angel of Bald passed over my proverbial door was a source of some comfort to me. (By the way, don't look for that in Proverbs. It's not there.) But this morning, I realized what my half of the equation was: I'm going gray...and it's not one or two hairs, it's the better part of my temples! At this rate, it's a matter of about a year before I'm the spitting image of Sean Connery, sans wrinkles. Let's just hope that it's the distinguished salt and pepper kind of gray, not the crazy pinstripe Ted Danson look. (Ross Nation Wisdom Nugget: The show Becker is not at all underrated.)

So apparently I'm aging about as gracefully as Grant Gibson on a dance floor (callback), but we'll keep an eye on things. I think next time I'll have to delve into the deeper issues of life, such as my new and frightening addiction to Lost, the commercial I saw for a new show called Rookie Blue -- Alger, this is our bread and applebutter -- and an update on the Great Shower Curtain Saga of 2010.

Ross Nation shoutout to Brenda Ceja for being a good writer. I can't read most blogs cause they lack punctuation, spelling, and content. The three pillars of mediocre writing. But Brenda is throwing down the gauntlet in this weird threeway blogbloc, and it's up to Jake and myself to bring the thunder, Vandal style.

Until then, Ross Nation out.

Postcards from the Edge

Occasionally I'll bring some info to this shindig that I'm gonna call either "Postcards from the Edge", or "Ross Nation Wisdom Nuggets." Cause I love irony. And the word nugget. Most of these will be worthless, but they bring a smile to my face, and you know what they say: "A spoonful of nuggets makes the penecillin stronger."

See, there it is, the very first Ross Nation Wisdom Nugget (or RNWN, as they will be referred to when this is wicked viral.

The Postcards from the Edge may be a little bit sadder, since the edge of Boring is pretty lame, let's face it. Something like this:

"The highlight of my day was going to Walmart to refill my ambien prescription and buy the previously discussed shower curtain liner. The sad part? I'm saving the receipt just in case the curtain isn't heavy enough..."

Also, brace yourselves, because this blog is gonna be lowsy with ellipses...

Ross Nation out.